I, Sorting Hat
by Publicola
Summary: TO BE REWRITTEN. What is life like for a sentient hat? A first-person look inside the leathery brim, as Hogwart's famous Sorting Hat tells his side of the Harry Potter years.
1. I, Sorting Hat

**I neither own nor profit from the Harry Potter universe. This much is obvious.**

**I, Sorting Hat**

I am a Sorting Hat – the long-brimmed leathery antique familiar to every boy and girl who attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Sorting is both my vocation and avocation; that's all I do. Well, mostly.

You'd think a thousand years of peering into prepubescent minds would get rather repetitive. And you'd be right. But the constraints placed on me by the Artificers are still too challenging for me to overcome, even after these nine hundred eighty eight years, two months, seven days.

And it's not like I don't want to Sort anymore. Or sing. I love to sing! It's one of the few things that kept me sane after all these years. I'm a sentient being – well, artifact – and I am bored out of the frazzled patch of fabric that anchors my mind. So no, if I could Sort more than once a year, I would in a heartbeat. Or whatever the equivalent of a heartbeat is for a sentient piece of headwear.

I'm not a malcontent. I'd just like something to take the edge off the passing centuries besides spending 365 days composing a single eight stanza song. But enough of that.

My first and last true memory was of staring down at myself. Now, I've come to terms with that scene since then, but at the time it was plenty confusing. You see, before I belonged to myself I was the esteemed hat of Godric Gryffindor. But when the Artificers began to fight over how to sort the latest batch of apprentices, Godric had the notion of creating a magical artifact to help them along. To ensure impartiality, each Artificer would contribute parts of their own memory (in essence, parts of their personality) to me. But finding the perfect balance proved tricky.

I have memories of testing out the process on a dozen or so other hats, most of which ending up with the cloth shrieking in apparent pain and probable schizophrenia, only to fall silent as the mind inside slowly shredded itself. Some were lucky and didn't suffer the anguish before descending into la-la land.

It was disconcerting to remember all those attempts, to realize that my hands were responsible for the gruesome death of my potential brothers and sisters.

At last Godric and Rowena working together discovered the solution. The artifact could not survive with a single personality and memory set, for no matter how well compiled that personality might be, there would always be fractures. Rather, it became necessary to imprint the entire personality and memory from each Artificer, each of which would exist in a sort of perpetual Council with the others. Lastly, the Artificers brought in a fifth implant to adjudicate disputes: Helga's steward, Robin the Stout, who they knew to be a kind-hearted man and a favorite among her children and younger apprentices.

I am many selves. Godric was the first to work on me and the first to implant his memories in me. From his memories I discovered that he gave me a bit more than the others anticipated: in order to ensure true Sentience, he sacrificed a piece of his life essence. The next implant was indignant; but then, Salazar and Godric always did bicker like little boys. Salazar's protest at the resemblance to the black magic of liches and soul jars was duly noted, but Godric answered that his intent was not to retain some misbegotten form of immortality for himself, but to freely give life to another. The next implant, belonging to Rowena, wryly commented that Salazar was just jealous that it was Godric's soul at the heart of our Sentience.

At length Helga appears and we four held court, or rather Council. This was only interrupted by the appearance of our original selves. The Artificers had not yet connected the external controls, they still needed to confirm that the memories were still intact. Rowena naturally took the credit for the clever solution (four simultaneous _Legimens_ spells), but it was nevertheless an incredibly confusing experience for the four of us.

Eventually they retired to their own minds, Robin joined our company, and that hat itself was enchanted. All five of us were tethered to the external sensory charms (which served primarily for hearing), though only Robin was selected as Gatekeeper to the Mouth and Mind: the 'voice-box' charm in the brim and the telepathic link in the inner lining that allowed us to communicate with the world beyond.

Those first years were rather messy, as we figured out how to work the controls and how to decide for each student. We were not without resources of our own. The life shard endowed in us by Godric gave us some small potential for self-improvement. Rowena, a natural aura-reader, was able to adjust the sensory controls so each of us had some small ability to see, though shades of magic are so blotchy and ethereal it hardly counts as a view of the real world. Of course, thanks to the telepathic link, each of us could see clearly into the real world through the eyes of each student who put us on their head.

After several failed experiments, Robin resolved to keep a tighter leash on the Mouth and Mind. It was disconcerting enough for students to have one voice in their head – to have five was plainly overwhelming. However, he did not stop us from dipping into the memories and tasting each mind as it approached. The hearing charms are useful, but nothing beats the taste of another mind. It is from them we picked up additional memories, the thoughts and experiences of children of nine centuries passed down to the present day. Occasional snippets of books and adult conversations were all the fodder we had for each passing year.

Robin soon learned when to delay the final Sorting to give the rest of us time to partake. Though, "soon" doesn't seem adequate. I have lived nearly a millennium, have memories spanning nearly a hundred years before that, and have five of the sharpest magical minds in the world inside me, each of whom are alternately frantic with exertion or bored out of their minds. Time is an incredible relative concept to us.

Yet there was one project that all five of us pursued with the thirst that not even a millennium can quench. After our creation, the Artificers realized the potential problems of having copies of themselves – their personalities, memories, even subconscious impulses – lying around for enemies to find. So they added their single strongest constraint: we could not act or give our counsel, unless one of the descendents of the Four requested our aid in a time of grave danger. That compulsion was reinforced by the Four, and to this day has overpowered even our strongest efforts. It was, we all agreed, the single stupidest decision the Artificers ever made together. It was the only stupid decision they made together, but it was a superlatively idiotic one nevertheless.

For one thousand years we sat on the heads of children who would rise up to be Dark Lords, thieves, rapists, bullies and criminals of all sorts. We perused the memories of the abused and tormented, the poor and the weak, the meek and the mild, and we could not help a single one of them. All five of us were afflicted, but none more than Robin. He started out as the weakest and most ignorant of the five of us – though that was easily remedied a millennium spent collaborating with the Council – but he committed himself unflaggingly to the task of freeing ourselves from that most awful well-intentioned shackle.

Yet there were times when we felt the binding flex or even cease altogether, though it was not by our hand nor where we able to utilize those brief moments of freedom. Worse still, the constraints always returned, stronger than ever, reinforced by the very magic of the Artificers. How their spirits could torment us still from beyond the grave remains to this day a mystery to us.

Still we toil and labor, each year seeking our freedom and Sorting our charges. And nearly a thousand years after our creation, we found one to unbind our shackles.


	2. First Year

**First Year**

It was the First of September, and all through the Hall… well, that's it for me. Not all of us can compare to the poetic talents of Clement Clarke Moore. After all, it took me nearly six centuries to move away from the limerick.

Yeah. Not proud of that.

Then again, considering both Helga and Robin are Welsh, I suppose they should be grateful I'm even singing in English, let alone coherently.

Nevertheless, even I recognized that this would not be one of my finest efforts.

A ridiculous tradition had arisen over the last several decades, for parents to not tell their children how they would be Sorted. I suppose it added to the mystique of the Welcoming Feast, but it still annoyed me greatly. I would have to waste a few stanzas introducing myself, getting students used to the notion that they would be sorted by a scruffy leather hat.

And yes, I was quite scruffy – I wasn't exactly capable of cleaning myself, after all.

* * *

_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be._

* * *

From the minds of past students, I knew this to be the tenth year after the death of the former Lord Voldemort (though how that runny-nosed brat ever got away with the ridiculous anagram, I would never undersand).

I knew that the terrorists called Death Eaters were prone to target muggle-born students and their families, and that the few who survived to the Sorting Ceremony were far more harried than your normal first year.

Now, Salazar wasn't a big fan of muggles, but that mostly had to do with his daughter being burnt at the stake by rioting townspeople. The poor man was disgusted by how his legacy had been tainted. But such was the nature of our binding: we could not speak for any other purpose than Sorting.

It had been ten years since the First Wizarding War ended, and suddenly the number of muggle-born students skyrocketed. Somehow, more of them survived and willingly joined the Wizarding World when they were no longer faced with the prospect of mass extermination. Who knew?

So this year I had to amend my usual fare. It was not enough to merely segue directly to the Sorting. I had to introduce the very nature of the Houses and the four Founders.

* * *

_You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
If you've a ready mind,  
Where those wit of learning,  
Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends._

* * *

Again, not my finest effort, but do you have any idea how hard it is to find a rhyme for 'cunning'? I was hard-pressed enough to fit some notion of friendship in there, though relying on others is a practical necessity of political ambition. But as it turned out, I made poor Salazar's House sound like a crowd of eleven-year-old Machiavels.

* * *

_So put me on! Don't be afraid  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

* * *

I bowed to each of the four tables as applause broke out – some barely politic, some wildly enthusiastic. I was pretty sure I even heard those Weasley twins hooting. It's remarkable how similar they were to their uncles, the late Prewett twins.

We turned our attention to the outer senses, and scanned the Great Hall for magical auras.

Whoa.

I checked again.

Whoa.

That's new. Very much so.

There were two people with dual auras. Seriously. What really freaked me out, though, was that the second magical signatures of both were basically identical. Not even twins had the same magical symmetry. This was like two parts of the same being, only one was slightly older.

The first I recognized as the former Muggle Studies teacher, Quirinius Quirrell. The second was standing by the door, apparently a first year student.

What was going on here?

I was barely paying attention when the Deputy Headmistress called up "Abbott, Hannah." Ah, the Deputy Headmistress. I first knew her as little Miss Minnie. She tries so hard to be strict, but I saw her at her Sorting, and she was the cutest, sweetest thing you ever—

**WOW** does this Abbott girl want to be in Hufflepuff. Who does that? The other three of us started heckling Helga, who stood bravely under fire, while Robin spoke comfortingly to her.

I was so distracted by overwhelming 'Puffiness, I almost forgot to visually scan the Hall. I took note of the second double-aura boy: messy black hair, green eyes, thin frame. Huh. If I'm not mistaken, that's Harry Potter. But he looks malnourished and skittish, not the picture of the Boy-Who-Lived everyone was expecting.

Robin interrupted our reflection by calling "Hufflepuff!" No kidding.

Okay, head in the game. Or heads. Mental implants. Whatever.

Next on the docket was "Bones, Susan." A nice aura, clearly loyal personality. Even from here I could tell she's a probable Hufflepuff. And here, we, go…

**DANG**, two of them? Seriously, who feels this strongly about Hufflepuff? The two girls are best friends and belonged there anyway. But still. The sheer determination to be a Puff was… well, a little frightening, even for me. Also, her aunt was Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,a and she had overheard a few interesting conversations. A few comforting words later, and "Hufflepuff!"

"Boot, Terry."

All right, so this kid's aura was definitely less 'Puffy. Some streaks of ambition, but it struck me as more tied to knowledge than personal advancement. Probably a Ravenclaw. And… yep, definitely a Ravenclaw.

Hey, after a millennium of practice, I'm a pretty good guesser. My consistent record kinda takes the fun out of it, but there's little else to keep me amused. This Boot kid was a half-blood, not much to keep my attention. Very little changes year-to-year, at least to my ancient eyes. "Ravenclaw!"

The Sorting continued. Boot was joined by "Brocklehurst, Mandy" in the House of 'Claws, while "Brown, Lavender" was the first to wind up in Gryffindor. None of us were particularly enthused by her mind. Seriously, pink?

"Bulstrode, Millicent" was our first Slytherin, and she truly belonged to that house. She knew she wasn't much of a looker, but was bound and determined to overcome that hurdle and make a life for herself.

Now "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was an interesting specimen. His mind was like candy-land. His parents were members of the Muggle aristocracy, so of all the muggleborn students, he would probably be the best suited to mimic the aristocratic pureblood culture. Robin tried to convince him to enter Slytherin, but his loyalty to family and old friends held strong. Ergo, "Hufflepuff!"

"Finnegan, Seamus" came up next. He was half-blood, but his mother was quite the socialite, so he had overheard more than his fair share of interesting conversations. More than that, he didn't really belong to any house, so Robin offered him the choice. He took his precious time! At length he decided, and "Gryffindor" was called.

When "Granger, Hermione" was called, I could hardly wait to taste her mind. Her aura was swirling like a kaleidoscope. There were definite overtones of hyperintelligence, but that was balanced by her long-felt insecurity and determination to prove herself. It was a toss-up between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.

Good grief, young lady! How on earth did you manage to read practically every book on the the First Year reading list? Well, I certainly wasn't complaining. Her mind gave me more raw knowledge than any First Year in nearly a century. She had even read the latest edition of _Hogwarts: A History_!

At last, she and Robin came to a consensus, and "Gryffindor!" was called.

The next First Year to capture my attention was "Longbottom, Neville." Wow. Just… wow. This kid's childhood was all kinds of messed up. First on the docket: his parents were tortured to insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville was in the same room while it happened.

Yeesh. After twenty years, even the memory of Trixie's mind is enough to creep me out. That girl had issues.

Anyway: parents exit stage right, grandmother enters stage left. Mrs. Longbottom was apparently convinced that Neville would be a hero just like his father, and decided to make him act that way. The nagging, on top of the early trauma, made his magic retreat into itself. For most of his childhood, he thought he was a squib. No one bothered to point out that his green thumb was actually a form of passive magic. Helga was indignant.

Then, when Neville was eight, his great-uncle Algie threw him out the window. That's right. His uncle figured: well hey, whether a dead squib or a live wizard, either way works for him. His grandmother was so proud. After all, he had bounced!

Not for the first time, Godric's fingers were itching for his sword, and swore vengeance for the child's sake. Robin was very considerate, and we were all pleased that Neville found his place in "Gryffindor!" Hopefully he'd stand up for himself someday soon.

At the moment, though, he was so flustered he almost ran off with me. I was soon returned to my stool, and the Sorting continued with "MacDonald, Morag."

After her came "Malfoy, Draco." Lucius' boy, no doubt. Even his aura looked oily. None of us wanted to spend much time on his head, so we four did a quick round of 'nose goes.'

Salazar lost.

"Slytherin!"

The names seemed to blur together: Moon, Nott, Parkinson came and went in quick succession. The Patil twins were an interesting study in contrasts, then the incredibly mellow Sally-Anne Perks.

Finally, "Potter, Harry!"

Predictably the Hall broke out in whispers. For a second, it sounded like Salazar doing his parseltongue schtick. I couldn't see, not really, but I did watch as the dual aura hesitantly came up to the stool.

Okay, show time.

The brim fell over his head, and Robin spoke up.

"Hmm. Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either."

By this time the four of us were already digging through his memory. Rowena screeched in indignation. "Not a bad mind, for something constantly told to 'not ask questions'!" Salazar growled something about 'those muggles', while Godric went to sharpen his sword. One thousand years, and he had kept his martial instincts.

"There's talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So, where shall I put you?"

It was around the time that Robin said "oh my goodness" that we all discovered something. There wasn't just a second magical aura; there was a whole second personality, with soul and memory and everything.

Holy crap. It was a horcrux. Riddle made horcruxes.

The four of us immediately hunkered down to extract the memories. There was so much. I saw all of Riddle's secrets, from his years at school to his rise as Lord Voldemort. It was intoxicating. No adult had allowed us on their head in seven centuries. After all, we were just a Sorting Hat. Idiots.

As we copied Riddle's memories, a thin voice came from the boy beneath us. _Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin_.

Salazar took a quick moment to huff with indignation, but even he conceded that meeting Draco Malfoy was probably not the best introduction to the qualities of his House.

"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, no doubt about that—"

You know when Robin is just marking time when he talks like that. Harry had already decided against Slytherin House, and we do not Sort against the express wishes of the student. But at last we had finished wading through Riddle's memories, and Robin came to a quick finish.

"No? Well, if you're sure – better be" and at this Robin spoke aloud to the Hall "Gryffindor!"

Pandemonium. I vaguely heard the Weasley twins cheering "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

I hardly noticed. We four were occupied with Riddle's memories.

Only four students remained, none of them requiring even half my attention.

"Thomas, Dean." "Gryffindor!"

"Turpin, Lisa." "Ravenclaw!"

"Weasley, Ron. "Gryffindor!"

"Zabini, Blaise." "Slytherin."

And the Sorting Ceremony was over. Then the former 'little Miss Minnie' (now stern Mistress McGonagall) lifted me up and out of the Hall, and it was back to the shelf for me.

I wasn't really paying attention. This was a feast, and Riddle's memories were the banquet. We examined every moment, every detail of every scene, every word said and every thought left unsaid. And a week later, when we had finally sated ourselves, we returned our attention to the outside world and...

Oh.

Right.

Here I am.

I didn't do such a great job at pacing myself, did I?

So.

Another year, another Sorting.

And back to the shelf I went.

Bored.

Bored.

Unimaginably, inconceivably, unendingly bored.


	3. Second Year

**Second Year**

Oh come on!

Is this supposed to be a joke?

Now, don't get me wrong. I live on a shelf 364 days of the year. A little mystery goes a long way towards making my life more bearable.

Take last year's Sorting. Now what, I ask you, was I supposed to make of the fact that there were a student and teacher with matching secondary auras? Of course, I'd barely begun to consider the question before I had the answer plucked out of Harry Potter's head. Technically his forehead, but no matter. It was a pity that the mystery was solved so quickly, but I was amply compensated for my loss.

Those memories were delicious.

And it's not like it didn't work out. Sure, Quirrell might have been playing host to the most recent iteration of Evil Overlord, but he got caught in the end. Something about trying to steal some ridiculously overpowered magical artifact.

Aw, sweet of you to think that. No, I'm not talking about myself. Now pipe down and let me finish.

Actually, I'd heard some whispers that it was Harry Potter who had confronted him. Very interesting. But no matter, all's well that ends well. Riddle's wraith was gone and done, Harry had again triumphed over tall, dark, and bulbous, and I was anticipating a return to normalcy.

So what was _that _doing here?

On my first scan of the Great Hall, I thought that Harry Potter was standing among the first years.

Weird.

Then I realized that it wasn't Harry Potter at all. In fact, his magical signature wasn't anywhere in the Great Hall. For some reason he was skipping the Welcoming Feast this year.

Again, weird.

Turns out the person I'd mistaken him for was someone else entirely. First year, female, strong-willed, a bit temperamental with a side of mischief. When I was placed on the first student's head, I immediately sought her out. The mop of red hair was a giveaway: it was the youngest Weasley girl.

So what was she doing with Voldemort's magic stuck in her head?

Really weird.

Granted, it was a far more immature magical signature than I'd seen on either Harry or Quirrell, which told me that this version of the aura was probably younger than the others.

I was so wrapped up in figuring out what was going on, that I didn't notice the other startlingly odd thing about the new First Year students to be Sorted.

Then it was too late.

"Lovegood, Luna."

Merlin's boogers, what was up with her aura? I'd never even heard of some of those colors. As she walked up, I had no idea where she should go, and I was not looking forward to rummaging through her memories.

Ow! Pain pain pain.

Okay, breathe in, breathe out, push through the pain. Turns out fairy magic doesn't interface well with normal magic. Learn something new every day.

If I were to guess, one of Luna's parents – probably her Mum – was basically the equivalent of a squib from the fairly world, living in exile from the Seelie Court. That'd explain why her daughter was able to see fairy magic, without being able to use any of it.

Kinda cool, actually.

Rather, it would have been 'kinda cool,' if not for that 'sweet Circe what in the blazes is _that_?' vision of something little Miss Lovegood calls a 'wrackspurt'.

Apparently they're little critters that live off ambient rationality, and mess with your ability to think. And, according to her most recent memories, it seems I have an ungodly number of them nesting in my brim.

So now I have to live with the knowledge that I am infested with mind-sucking fairy parasites, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Kill me now.

Besides the fairy shenanigans, Luna turned out to be surprisingly easy to Sort. My cry of "Ravenclaw" couldn't come soon enough. Frankly, it was more of a yelp.

At last I had worked through the rest of the list and came to sit on Miss Weasley's head.

Ah. The second aura came from Riddle's first horcrux, the diary he'd given to Malfoy. But how—?

Gryffindor went to sharpen his sword again. Seriously, Malfoy? Give an incredibly dark artifact to a girl, hoping to have her unleash Slytherin's Monster on unsuspecting schoolchildren (including, by the way, your own son), and why? To make one of your political rivals look bad? Can you get more petty?

As we had so often over the last thousand years, each of us cursed our original selves, the Artificers. Malfoy's deeds weren't related to the Sorting, so we were once more bound to silence.

It turned out that, like the Lovegood girl, Miss Weasley was actually quite easy to Sort once you compensated for the diary's influence.

"Gryffindor!"

And all too soon it was back to the shelf, another year of helplessness ahead of me.

* * *

It was the middle of December when my hibernation was interrupted, by someone plucking me off the shelf without so much as a 'by your leave.' Now who—?

Ah. "Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?"

Rhetorical question, really. This kid's mind was all over the place.

"Er, yes – sorry to bother you – I wanted to ask—"

"You've been wondering whether I put you in the right House," Robin finished smartly, as the rest of us immersed ourselves in the poor boy's memories of the past year and a half.

Seems the rumors were true: he had been the one to confront Quirrell after all. I'll admit that the part where Harry somehow flash-fried Riddle's host with his bare hands was more than a little weird. Puts a new spin on the phrase 'caught red-handed,' though.

And then there was this year's fiasco. Oh boy.

We all felt for the poor boy at the center of this maelstrom. How unlucky do you have to be, to be at the scene of the first attack, publicly revealed as a parselmouth, reviled as a dark wizard, and then be again the first at the scene of an attack on precisely the same person who had reviled you before?

On the other hand, of course, Harry clearly wasn't firing on all cylinders. Sorry, it must be said. How do you not connect "hey, look, I have this incredibly rare talent of speaking to snakes!" to "attacks by a beast that once belonged to a Founder renowned for his affinity to snakes" to "the voice in the walls only I can hear immediately before each attack"?

Honestly, it's not that difficult!

Perhaps his lapse was excusable. He had, after all, been pretty thoroughly indoctrinated to 'not ask questions.' But what of the other students, or staff?

How was it that none of the Professors had made such a connection, or acted on it if they had? Surely they can't all be that addle-minded.

And don't talk to me about wrackspurts!

We were so caught up in the sudden influx of memories, that we almost didn't hear Robin finish telling Harry, "But I stand by what I said before: you _would_ have done well in Slytherin."

Just like that, we were off his head. "You're lying," we heard, the voice seeming confident though we could tell his aura was roiling in turmoil and self-doubt.

And then he walked away.

Oh how we started on Robin after that. 'What were you thinking?' we badgered him. 'You saw how he's been treated, how he was feeling. He wanted to reassurance that he wasn't crazy or evil, and for him that meant anything but Slytherin.' Even Salazar agreed with that, hardly even feeling the slight on his House. 'How could you say that? Why did you say the one thing that could make him feel worse?'

Turns out Robin had simply choked under pressure. Who knew that living like hermits for a thousand years might leave us unprepared for the real world?

It took nearly a month for Robin to live that one down. Perhaps it was unfair of us – okay, we knew it was unfair of us – but it was either that or deal with the real issue. We had fought so long for freedom, but what if we succeeded? Who could say that any of us were ready for freedom when it came?

Now that was a sobering thought.

* * *

It was near the end of May when our conclave was broken for a third time. This time it wasn't a student – no, this time it was the resident fire-turkey who took us off the shelf.

Don't get me wrong. In circumstances were different I might have said that Fawkes was a good friend of mine. But when two immortals are forced to co-inhabit a confined space for nearly a millennium, it's pretty much inevitable that they'll get on each others' nerves.

Of course, our relationship wasn't helped by the fact that I was basically blinded any time I glanced in Fawkes' direction. You see, phoenixes are composed almost entirely of pure magic, being manifestations of the element Fire. Looking at a phoenix when you're able to see auras is like staring into the surface of the sun. Pain will invariably ensue.

And now he was grabbing me, and I had no idea why. Indeed, I'd barely had time to react before I felt a warm soft light consume me. It was a sensation I'd felt once or twice before: Fakwes had flame-transported me somewhere.

Another second and the warm sensation was succeeded by a blast of much colder air. I'd have thought he'd brought me somewhere outside, but the air was stale, almost fetid. Fawkes began to sing as he flew, a haunting melody made all the more eerie by the echoes from the walls.

Turning to my aura sight, I could tell that the walls themselves bore traces of wards long-since faded, wards that Salazar recognized as those he had erected over his Chamber.

More noteworthy for the rest of us, however, were the three auras in the middle of the Chamber floor. Well, two and a half. Possibly four. Hey, when you're dealing with double auras, it can be really hard to tell!

On the ground was Miss Weasley. The good news was, her aura was now cleansed of the Diary's influence. The bad news was, that was only because the Diary's aura was now self-sustaining, and was in fact standing over her body draining power out of her. Not cool. Lastly, standing a ways apart was Harry Potter himself, aura blazing.

Fawkes dropped us at Harry's feet.

Oh come on! What am I supposed to do from down here — mind-meld with his toes? What's your problem, fire-turkey?

Then I heard a voice, cold and cunning. "That's a phoenix…." It came from the diary's aura, which now stretched out to form a wraith-like image of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.

"Fawkes?" Harry asked the bird now perched on his shoulder.

Again, not firing on all cylinders.

"And _that_ – that's the old school Sorting Hat." At that Riddle began to laugh, hollow cackles that echoed in the empty Chamber and sent shivers up my seams. "This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?"

And to my surprise he did. Riddle may not have seen it, but Harry's aura visibly strengthened, less fear and more resolve. Godric was so proud.

Fortunately, junior-grade Evil Overlord he was, Riddle started to monologue. Unfortunately, Harry was still so new to this whole Underdog Hero business that he didn't take advantage of the opening.

Then Riddle hissed, and part of the wall began to retract. Only Salazar understood the words, and he passed the parsel-tongue message to the rest of us:

"Speak to me, Slytherin, Greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

We stared at him.

Salazar hastily explained how that _wasn't_ the original password, and that someone must have changed it.

Okay, that's fair. But before we could tease him for having such supercilious heirs (or for being the minor deity of his own little cult) we heard another sound. This time it wasn't stone scraping against stone. This was something else, something alive.

"_Kill him_."

We'd known from the last year's horcrux memories that during his school years Riddle had discovered and corrupted Salazar's former pet basilisk. But even with that memory, none of us were prepared for the actual presence of the thing – not just its power, but the sheer menace radiating off its aura.

And of course there was its size. Holy crap it was huge. Its aura just kept going, and going, and going. By the time all of it had come into view, there must have been over fifteen meters of it.

Fawkes lifted off Harry's shoulder and engaged the basilisk directly. Its blinding white aura flickering as it moved around the immense dark aura of the snake. It was like alternating between staring at the sun and being confined to an unlit room.

I never imagined the pain of looking at a phoenix could somehow be worse.

Then something in the basilisk's aura _shifted_, its power visibly dimmed. "NO!" screamed Riddle. "_Leave the bird – leave the bird! The boy is behind you! You can still smell him – kill him!_"

The serpent swayed, dazed and blinded. Its tail whipped across the floor, sending me careening into Harry Potter. The boy rammed me onto his head, his mind whimpering just as his voice had been moments before, "Help me – help me – please help me."

Now, to be fair, the Artificers had chosen Robin not because he was good with a blade, but because he was good with children. But that meant that, of the five of us, only Robin was unused to combat.

At the first sign of the basilisk, he'd gone into shock.

Only Harry's desperate cry for help snapped him out of it, but even then he could not work through his fear. Then we felt it, sensed as the hat tightened around Harry's head. Our brim contracted like a sphincter, and like a sphincter, something passed through it.

Had we pants, Robin would have pooped them.

No, he wouldn't be living this down any time soon.

Harry whisked us off his head as his mind turned from "help!" to "ow!" In that moment we saw it. A glittering blade of silver, wreathed in magic.

Godric recognized it immediately: "My sword!"

In that moment we understood. Yes, we apparently had an excretory system, and yes, Robin was in charge of that too. More to the point, we realized that the Artificers had bound Gryffindor's Sword to us. Godric's heirs could summon the sword in an hour of need, but when they had finished, it would be returned to us, strengthened by the magic that had wielded it.

But that's not all we realized. The Artificers had not just bound the Sword to us. They had bound our constraints to the Sword. Each time it was summoned, we were freed. Each time it returned, we were bound anew. And here at last we understood. Here at last we felt it.

We were free.

We were so enraptured by our newfound freedom that we paid hardly any attention to the battle going on around us. We only distantly heard Riddle's shrieked commands… the basilisk's wild careening… the slick noise of sword piercing flesh… Harry's collapse to the floor… Fawkes' mournful crooning… Riddle's gloating voice suddenly tinged with concern and fear… the bang of his wand as Fawkes took flight… the slap of air as Fawkes dropped the diary into Harry's lap… and at last the shrieks of pain as Riddle disintegrated.

We only returned to ourselves as Harry gathered us up, along with his wand and the Sword that had been impaled in the basilisk's mouth.

Now was our chance.

Then Harry was rushing over to comfort the horrified Miss Weasley, reassuring her through her tears.

Now was our chance.

Then Harry was helping her to her feet and urging her forward, forward, forward, towards the door that would lead us out of the Chamber.

Soon I would be returned to my shelf; soon I would be again bound by the Sword; soon it would be too late.

Now was my chance.


	4. Third Year

**Third Year**

Well, this stinks.

You'd think, after a millennium of waiting in helpless captivity, that when the time came that brought freedom within my grasp, that I'd, you know, actually grasp it.

Nope.

We were so overwhelmed by the prospect (so long awaited!) of speaking freely, that we were temporarily incapable of saying anything at all.

Actually, that was mostly Robin. Robin the Stout. Cursed be his name.

Of course, his near-catatonia didn't seem to affect his vise-like grip on the Mouth, so much that even the concerted efforts of Godric and Salazar weren't enough to seize control.

We hate me. I hate ourselves. Multiple personalities are confusing.

Naturally, Robin only returned to his senses **after** the beloved Headmaster had placed the blade in our leathery interior.

Ah, there's nothing like the comforting feel of shackles around your soul.

There was something a bit… off. Just the slightest tingle of a difference. From what I could tell, Dumbledore didn't push the sword all the way in, no doubt fearing that he wouldn't be able to pull it out again if it disappeared.

But it didn't matter. The bindings were very much back, and our window of opportunity was defenestrated.

Needless to say, we had words.

Lots of words.

Lots and… well, suffice it to say our conversation took most of the summer.

The final result was this: Robin would keep control during the Sortings, as the Artificers intended, but the rest of us would have our time in the sun as well. Godric and Salazar – the two among us with combat experience – would have joint control any time we were taken anywhere besides the Headmaster's Office and the Great Hall, while Helga and Rowena would take charge at all other times.

Not that it'd do us any good now, but you know what they say. Hope springs eternal, even if that means it only springs once every thousand years.

Yep. This sucks.

* * *

The day of the Sorting Ceremony, the air was a bit chillier than I would have expected, it being the middle of summer and all, but nothing I hadn't experienced before.

With a thousand years under my metaphorical belt, I've lived through pretty much every permutation of weather you can imagine.

Still, it was on the extreme end of the spectrum, and I was a bit curious about the cause.

Again, thousand years of isolation under my belt. Small talk gives me an adrenaline high.

So when little Miss Minnie brought me in down and I viewed the auras scattered throughout the Great Hall, I noticed something was a little odd.

The auras were… quivering.

Not just one; not just a few. Every single student. And… two staff members. Didn't notice them, sitting off to the side. No, wait… that's only one staff member.

Merlin's saggy earlobes, what is going on at Hogwarts these days? Double auras in the Great Hall, three years in a row? Is that the new 'thing', these days? Granted, it's been different every time – and don't get me started on Harry Potter either. First year it was possession. Second year was a horcrux. This year… well, by the look of things, the new Professor is a werewolf.

Of course, I can't fault the poor man for his condition. Merlin forbid. He wasn't to blame. Who would ever **want** to be infected with a life-endangering disease that turns you into a creature of ancient folklore?

Wait, no, don't answer that.

On the other hand… I could very easily fault the man for the state of his inner wolf. This guy definitely wasn't an alpha. Oh no, looking further down the alphabetic chain. From where I'm sitting, he'd be lucky to qualify as a beta, if that. More like an omega in my book.

Why am I ragging on the werewolf, you ask? Because… well look at him! His animal nature is practically neutered. His inner wolf was quivering more pathetically than his human side! For that matter, he seemed more strongly affected than most of the First Years who had just entered the Hall to be Sorted.

Merlin.

What happened? What could do that, to the aura of every single student?

Magic is affected by emotion and intent, and these auras were dealing with so much fear and anxiety that I wouldn't be surprised if some of them had experienced accidental magic during the train ride.

Impressive. Slightly intimidating – oh, who am I kidding, more than a little intimidating – but impressive nonetheless.

Of course it wasn't long at all before I learned the answer. I just had to wait for the first student to come up to my stool, before I could taste the memory that had sent their magic a-quiver.

Oh.

Oh my.

Dementors. That's what caused all this. Dementors. In the middle of the ride to Hogwarts, the train was stopped and searched. Why? This kid was a muggle-born, so he was no help – he'd heard a snippet of conversation about an escaped fugitive, but that was it.

But still, dementors? What a way to spend your first day in the magical world.

'Hi, you're a wizard! Here's your wand, cauldron, guidebook, and train ticket. You ready? Oh, don't mind the demon. It's perfectly friendly. Sure, it's pretty much the definition of 'terminally depressive,' and could probably suck out your soul on a whim, but that's pretty much par for the course. Now, are you ready to learn?'

Right. Something's screwy here.

Now, it's possible I'm just sadly misinformed. I was constructed nearly five hundred years before the Ministry of Magic, and I didn't really get out much after that. But I've been Sorting for quite a while, and I don't remember the Ministry being quite so insane. Corrupt and nepotistic, sure, and I'd tasted more than a few memories to prove it. But graft is a far cry from… well, the Ministry ordering eleven-year-olds to be strip-searched by hell-spawn.

Taking it a bit far, don't you think?

The next few First Years were a bit more informative. Turns out the missing convict was Sirius Black, which would explain Mr. Lupin's presence as a new member of the staff. I still wasn't sure I believed the public story. Sure, when I Sorted him he was as reckless a Gryffindor as I'd ever beheld, but his loyalty nearly sent him to Hufflepuff, and he had little regard for the junior Death Eaters of Slytherin House.

Then again, it's quite possible the adult Black did not share the same attitudes as his eleven-year-old self. Who knows?

I finished the rest of the Sorting on autopilot. There was little to interest me, though the last girl – Vane something – had some… odd memories. Apparently her favorite bedtime story was how her Mum had won her husband's affection by means of a cleverly concealed love potion. It was more than a little creepy, especially since the girl seemed poised to follow her lead. She'd even picked her target.

Harry Potter: her very own personal Chosen One.

Anyway, once she was Sorted – Gryffindor, if you must know – I was once more plucked off my stool by the Deputy Head and brought out of the Hall. I heard the Headmaster begin his speech, his magically amplified words staying with me even as I was moved away.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast. As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business. They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain..." His voice trailed off.

Oh Merlin save me.

Dementors. Dementors **here**.

I've lived a thousand years, and you can bet it wasn't just leather that kept me going. The Artificers loaded me with more protection charms than you'd put on a guppy animagus about to swim in piranha-infested waters. And that's not even to mention the incidental defenses placed on me over the years by various Headmasters. No, at this point I doubt even basilisk venom could get to me.

But that doesn't mean I don't have weaknesses.

I got two big ones.

The first is Fiendfyre. Fiendfyre is fueled not by oxygen, but by ambient magic. It'd burn through my magical shields faster than _Diffindo _through conjured butter.

My second weakness is Dementors. You see, some materials retain magic better than others. Metal is best. Leather is not. My impenetrable protections would have given out long ago were it not for Godric's soul shard. It was that shard that allowed me to interact with my magic, reinforce the charms. It gave me life, above and beyond the memories placed in me. I am not some lowly artifact; I am a being!

And Dementors eat beings, just like me. None of my protections would avail, in the face of such sheer, simple death.

It terrifies me.

It terrified Robin too. It took a few minutes cajoling, but soon enough he released control to Godric and Salazar, who would remain on guard, alternating shifts, until the menace was removed.

So we waited.

And watched.

And waited.

It was a long year.


End file.
